


Life is What You Make It

by GalaxyGhosty



Category: JackSepticEye (YouTube RPF), Markiplier (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Wherein, Jack meets Mark outside his bakery, looking for clovers. But there are more to the clovers than meets the eye, and more to Mark as well, bubbling just beneath the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is What You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> Before we even get into this, let me say this outright: **I am not romanticizing suicide or depression.**
> 
> If anything, this story is just about dealing with it. Living a life where you deal with it, where you learn to live with it. That's all I've ever wanted to be able to do.
> 
> A lot of Mark's thoughts and feelings are directly from my experience, therefore I cannot say this story speaks for everyone with depression and/or suicidal thoughts. They are just me. The poems are mine, as well. I've never self-harmed but I've thought about it, and I've never attempted to commit suicide, but I've thought about it long and hard.
> 
> I just wanted to write this story. Starting out, I had a cuter story in mind. But this became--this became an outlet for myself. I found I wanted just to write it. I had to write it. I wanted it to be told. 
> 
> So I guess...thanks for reading. If you choose to read it, after knowing all of that.
> 
> Fun fact: this story was entirely written to Radioactive by Imagine Dragons.

Jack is working in the bakery on a cloudy afternoon, placing cinnamon rolls in the display case when he catches the sight of someone outside the shop. 

He stops to look at them, coming out from behind the display case to lean on the counter, trying to see through the window. Jack sees a mop of dark hair and pale skin, with a flash of red flannel. He thinks of the Autumn weather but is it really the season for flannel? For an unknown reason, curiosity bubbles under his skin, and Jack walks around the counter to go to the window.

It's a man, and upon closer inspection he can now see the glasses adoring his face, which oddly seem to suit him. The man kneels down and pats his hand along the ground with one hand, holding a little black book to his chest tightly with the other, and Jack squints, wondering what on earth he's doing. It takes Jack a moment to realize that he's sifting through the grass—more specifically, the clover patch—and Jack honestly wonders what he's doing. There are plenty of parks in the area that have clovers—why did he have to come to the private property, aka his bakery? But Jack doesn't have the heart to go out and complain to him, especially when he sees the man smile, soft on his lips, as he pulls the clover from the ground. He stands up, holding it to the sky, twirling it in his fingers before he places it into the book.

He walks away, leaving Jack a little bewildered, but also a little more interested. 

~~

Jack doesn't see him again until a few days later, right before closing. He's cleaning up some of the tables and turning off the oven and rubbing tiredly at his eyes, thinking he really needs some coffee, but thinking maybe he shouldn't if he wants to sleep tonight. As he looks up, Jack catches the familiar flash of black hair, illuminated by the sunset, and he goes to the window again. 

Sure enough, it's the same guy. His glasses hang loosely on the bridge of his nose while he sifts through the clovers again. Deft fingers poke out from the long sleeves of his flannel—blue this time—overlooking many of the little green plants until, just briefly his hands still, and he picks one. At first, Jack hadn't known what he'd really been looking for, but being more observant reveals that the man had been looking for a four leaf clover. He does the same thing as last time—he holds it up to the sky, twirling it in his fingers with a soft faint smile before he sticks it in the book he's still carrying. 

But this time, the stranger glances at the window, and sees Jack staring. He pales even more than his original skin tone, and before Jack can smile, wave, and indicate he's not angry, the man takes off without looking back.

~~

Even though he's only seen him twice, Jack can't help but be enamored by the mysterious clover man. 

Work at the bakery becomes a little more interesting, though. Every day that Jack goes in to work, he expects to see him at some point in the day. At every available moment, he takes the time to glance out the main window, whether he's baking or he's serving or he's just hanging out, waiting for the next crowd to come in. 

But he doesn't. Jack idly wonders about the reasoning behind the clover man. Maybe he just really likes clovers. Or maybe he relies on luck—or maybe he collects them. He wonders why the stranger puts them in the book. What does he do with them? Is that how he carries them?

So many unanswered questions. 

It's not until a few weeks later that he sees the stranger again, right before closing once more. Jack is wiping down the counter, cleaning up powdered sugar and sprinkles when he sees movement out of the window. He drops his rag and glances up, his heart skipping just a fraction when he sees the clover man. 

By the time Jack gets to the window, he's already leaning down, searching through his clover patch again. He's a little to the left, more out of sight from the window, as if nervous to be back. Jack spectates him for a bit, before he goes outside and clears his throat. “Excuse me?”

The stranger jumps, attempting to swirl on his heels. But because he's squatting down, the action is a little harder than originally thought, because he stumbles and falls onto his butt. Jack laughs, despite telling himself he wouldn't.

“You okay?” he inquires, and frowns when Clover Man stares at him with wide, almost fearful eyes. Jack quickly assures him, “I—hey, it's all good. I was just going to offer you a cup of coffee, if you wanted one? Since you're hanging out all the time I thought, hey, maybe I should go introduce myself.”

Jack hopes he sounds friendly enough, because he's been told in the past he sometimes comes off as an egotistical douchebag, and that's really not the impression he wants to make. The stranger sits and stares for a few seconds longer before slowly nodding his head, and Jack offers him a hand.

He takes it. His hands are rough against his skin, and that's saying something—Jack's own hands are pretty rough. Working with them day in and day out will really do that to a person. He hauls the other man up and they're about the same height, though the other man is a little bit broader in the shoulders than himself.

Jack walks back to the shop door and opens it, holding it open for Clover Man. He hurries in timidly, almost as if afraid he's burdening Jack by making him open the door. Jack follows behind him and closes the door, flipping the sign from _Open_ to _Closed_ , just in case. It's almost closing time, anyway.

Clover Man stands awkwardly in the middle of the bakery, glancing around at the few chairs and tables, his eyes grazing along the trim of the walls, and the few mementos of home that adorn them. Jack goes behind the counter and pours the remnants of the coffee in the pot into a mug. He starts another pot and calls to the stranger, “How do you take it?”

Silence. Jack looks over his shoulder and Clover Man stares at him, as if unsure what he's asking. Jack holds up the mug of still warm coffee. “How do you take your coffee, I mean?”

“Oh,” Clover Man murmurs, and his voice is soft, but deep. It's a pleasant tone, and Jack finds that he likes it. “Whatever is good. I...don't really have a preference. Just anything but straight black. A little too bitter for me.” 

Jack shakes his head, but puts a little cream and sugar into it, mixing it in before sliding the cup across the counter. Clover Man fixes his gaze on it for a moment before taking it, and Jack leans against the counter.

“So,” Jack says, extending a hand. “I'm Jack, by the way. Well—my ID and license say my name is Sean, but Jack is what I go by. It's a nickname.” 

“That seems like a funny nickname for Sean,” Clover Man replies quietly, taking a sip of the coffee. He smiles, and Jack finds he likes the smile much more when he can see it closer. “But it sort of suits you better.”

A pause passes over them. Jack gazes upon him expectantly, and as if something suddenly dawns on him, Clover Man sputters out, “O-oh! I'm Mark, by the way. Thank you for the coffee.” 

Jack grins. Mark—it fits him well. He can't explain why, but it just seems to click. He looks like a Mark, definitely. “Nice to meet you then, Mark, finally. Since you hang out around my bakery pretty often.”

“Oh,” Mark says, and then, “Oh! You—you own the place?” 

“You bet,” Jack replies, taking a moment to feel a little pride. “Worked my ass off, but hey, it paid off. Never thought I'd own a bakery growing up, but here we are. Life likes to do that, I've found.”

Mark's fingers run up and down the coffee mug, silent for a second. He seems so lost in thought, his shoulder still, his breathing shallow. Then he nods. “Yeah. Life likes to be unexpected.” 

The new pot of coffee Jack had begun to brew beeps, indicating that it's ready to go. Jack holds up a finger, signaling that he needs a moment before he goes back and pours himself a cup. The steaming liquid wafts through the air, and Jack sighs in content as he adds two sugars, before stirring it up. He walks around the counter with the mug in hand, and settles into one of the chairs by the window, indicating for Mark to join him.

After a few awkward seconds of not moving, Mark makes his way over and sits across from him. 

“I'm sorry if I'm bothering you,” Mark blurts out, then his face flushes, redness crawling up his neck and across his cheeks. “I know that—it's sort of weird. Just seeing some guy outside your shop, looking through your grass.”

Jack shrugs. Sure, it's a little weird, but Mark hadn't caused any trouble, hadn't scared anyone off, and so far, hasn't been rude. He says as much. “Don't worry about it. I mean, yeah I kind of want to know what's so interesting about my grass, considering that it's all like, imported and planted and not even really that natural, but it's your business, really. And you usually come around closing anyway so hardly anyone's here, so it's not like you're bothering me.”

Mark drums his fingers on the table, then they shift to his knees. “I—uh. There's just. I collect four leaf clovers. And there's...a lot of 'em here, that's all...”

An unsettling tension begins to rise up, so Jack takes a long swig of his nearly scalding hot coffee, and says to ease that tension, “Well, I'll be damned. Luck follows me everywhere! It's in me Irish blood, ya see?” 

He usually makes an effort to talk more clearly, his Irish accent more faint when he does so, but this time he talks as normal as possible, and it shows. His sudden burst of Irish-ness apparently is amusing to Mark, because before he can help it, he starts laughing.

Jack's heart skips. What a gorgeous sound it is. He can't stop the huge grin spreading across his face, from ear to ear, his teeth showing. 

“But really,” Jack tells him, when Mark's laughter simmers down. “I don't mind that you collect 'em or whatever.”

He takes another drink of his coffee, as Mark nods his head, the little black book resting on the table. “Thank you, Jack. For, uh—you know. The coffee and--”

“Not bitching at you for trespassing?” Jack jokes. “But hey, don't mention it.”

He sets the mug down and checks his watch, sighing. He should be getting home. But before he goes, he locks eyes with Mark. The man has a warm set of brown eyes. Jack likes them. “And you know, if you ever wanna come by for coffee again, my door is open.”

Jack means the offer, but he doesn't think Mark will take him up on it. He seems a little too timid, too shy, but he wants to leave it out there anyway. Secretly, he's still really intrigued by him, and though he's burning with questions, he doesn't want to ask them.

If Mark comes back, he will. But he doesn't bank on that as he and Mark leave the shop. Jack turns to lock up and by the time he turns back, Mark is already gone. 

~~

“Sounds like you've got a crush,” Felix says over Skype after he explains Mark. “Is he cute?”

“I've only just met him,” Jack retorts, rolling his eyes. He aims his rifle in the game, focusing in on the avatar before he clicks the mouse, the gun firing off. “But yes, he's cute.”

“Hey, love at first sight, and all that?” Felix tries, but then his words are followed by two loud swears, one in Swedish and the other in English. “Fuck! Why did you shoot me?” 

“You know I don't believe in love at first sight,” Jack says seriously. “And also, Felix, it's TTT. Of course I'm gonna shoot you, you fuckin' traitor.” 

~~

Autumn bleeds into winter with a vengeance. Jack doesn't like the cold all that much—he's got bad circulation in his hands and feet that make them nearly impossible to keep warm, making the appendages feel like they'd snap off with the slightest pressure. But, Jack does some of his best business in winter—people are always eager for a warm pastry and some coffee on cold mornings, which Jack always keeps stocked up for the occasion.

He hasn't seen Mark in months. Jack hadn't been hopeful he would return, but he had wished that he would. He thinks Felix is stupid for suggesting that he has a crush, but maybe he does. It would explain the weird feeling in his chest. A series of old and new faces continue to crop up at his bakery, but never any sign of the familiar, ink black hair, or warm brown eyes. 

The chill of January proves to be different, though. A few days after New Years, a quiet murmur has broken out in his bakery, people softly exchanging resolutions and plans. Jack distracts himself by scrolling through his phone, reading various new articles while waiting for someone to appear at the counter and order something. The bell above his door jingles, and when he looks up, he sucks in a sharp breath.

Mark. He glances around the shop in that same, uncertain way, pulling his scarf around his neck tighter as he sat down at a seat in the corner, his gloved fingers drumming on the table, reminiscent of how he'd done the same thing only a few months ago. A bag is slung cross-body over his shoulder, and Jack thinks perhaps there's something in there he's going to pull out—maybe a book or a laptop, given the place has wi-fi, but he remains still, not even touching it.

Jack gives him a few minutes, waiting for him to look up at the counter and meet his gaze, but he doesn't. So Jack walks around the counter and slides into the seat across from him, startling the other man, given the way he jumps.

“Hey,” Jack hums, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. “Haven't seen you in a while. How've you been?”

For a fearful second, Jack thinks maybe he's mistaken him for someone else, given the way that Mark seems entirely unresponsive to him, but after a beat, he softens, and Mark shrugs. “Um...I'm...I'm good. Thank you.”

There's something softer, more unsteady about his voice that causes Jack to not believe him, but he doesn't call him out on it. Instead, he says, “Good. So, what can I get you?”

“Huh?”

Jack rolls his eyes playfully. “You're in a bakery, you dingus. One that sells pastries and coffee, and some teas. What do you want?”

“Oh, I...” Mark clears his throat. “I don't know, I guess. Um. What do you have?”

Jack lets out a dramatic sigh, gesturing to the counter. “There's a menu right over here. C'mon, I'll show you.”

He scoots the chair back, and hurries back behind the counter, gesturing to the menu behind him. Jack also gestures to the display case. “Pick something you like?” 

Mark follows him up to the counter, squinting behind his glasses at the menu. He then glances over at the display case and his gaze zeroes in on a pastry in particular.

He grins, as Mark murmurs, “I don't think I've had a cinnamon roll in years.”

Jack grabs a napkin and using the tongs, grabs a sticky cinnamon roll from the case. It's already wrapped in paper but he sets it on the napkin, sliding it across the counter at him. Mark's eyes immediately light up, and Jack swirls on his heel to pour him a cup of coffee too, sliding that across the counter as well with a few creams and a few packs of sugar. 

Mark fumbles around in his pocket, pulling out his wallet. He yanks out a few bills and put them on the counter, and Jack takes them, depositing them into the register. He slides the change back across the counter, and when Mark pockets it, Jack shoos him back to his seat.

“Go enjoy yourself,” Jack tells him, as Mark gathers the confection and the coffee, grabbing the cream and sugar packets to put into his pocket. “Tell me what you think, yeah?” 

Mark nods at him, and returns to his seat. Jack glances around the shop, trying not to stare, but out of the corner of his eye, he watches him. 

Jack finds that he rather likes the way that Mark's entire face lights up when he takes a bite into the cinnamon roll, how he can see memories unfolding in the creases of his face and in the curl of his smile. It's a beautiful thing.

He pushes up his sleeves to begin baking again, and Jack feels like he's done something pretty good.

~~

Mark stays until closing, waiting at the little table in the corner as if he's got nowhere else to go. Jack sincerely hopes that isn't the case. He supposes it isn't, given that at some point, Mark pulls out a mobile device, perhaps a phone or an iPod, and puts earbuds in his ears. He pulls out the little black book and with a pen, writes in it for the entire duration of his stay. 

Every time Jack looks up at him, he's writing, and Jack can't help but be curious about it. But he's got a job to do, so he doesn't talk to Mark again until nearly closing time, when the last few customers are trickling out. 

Mark is so engrossed in whatever he's scribbling down that he doesn't even notice the rapidly thinning crowd, and so Jack sits across from him, gazing, waiting for him to realize that he's the only one left in the bakery.

He does, eventually. He glances up, as if to do a time check, when Jack sits in front of him, arms crossed with a soft grin. Mark notices that they're alone and he colors, scrambling to close his book and pull his headphones out. “S-sorry, hey I'm going, I'm going--”

“Don't worry about it!” Jack chirps, laughing it off. “You seemed pretty into that. What were you writing about?”

Mark grabs the book and pulls it close to his chest, dropping his pen into his pocket. Jack notices that his coffee is drained completely, and the cinnamon bun is entirely gone, the only trace of it being the little paper it had been wrapped in on top of the napkin Jack had given him. It warms his heart.

“Oh, um...” Mark stammers, running his fingers along the spine of his book. “I'm just...stories. Little things. Sometimes poetry. But mostly stories...” 

Jack nods, and Mark raises his eyes. Shyly, he puts the book back on the table, flipping through a few pages before he slides the book over to Jack.

He glances down at it, and Mark gestures to it meaningfully. “You can...I mean...you can look at it...just that page, though.”

A surge of happiness and honor fills him. Jack tenderly flips the book around to look at it, and is surprised to see four leaf clovers adorning the page, neatly pressed and filling the corners. He rubs his fingers over them tenderly, before his eyes focus on the words.

> _oh these memories are_  
>  hitting me hard  
>  old stones cropping up again  
>  when i had hidden them so deep  
>  buried graves are dug up from the dirt  
>  dust scattering in the breeze  
>  and it chokes me  
>  oh, it chokes me  
>  and i wonder so lethargically  
>  if you felt it too  
>  oh god i wonder if  
>  you felt it too  
> 

Jack feels his heart still, skipping a single beat. There's something so raw and emotional about the words, how they're messy and not capitalized, yet it flows together elegantly. He snaps his gaze back up to Mark, whose fingers are twitching apprehensively, his lower lip tucked between his teeth as he waits for Jack to finish.

“That was...” Jack breathes, closing the book. He runs his fingers along the worn cover. This book has clearly been well used. “That was really...powerful, man. I'm not—I'm not an avid reader, but I could—I could _feel_ that.”

Mark's eyes light up at the compliment, and a soft blush spreads across his cheeks.

But a million questions are burning in his mind as he speaks, weighing in heavy on his tongue. Is the poem about himself? Is he okay? Is there something on his mind? Does he need to talk? But he doesn't ask—it's not his place. Instead, Jack asks, “So is that what you've been using my clovers for?” 

Mark laughs at that, nodding. “Yeah, I--...I collect them because...sometimes I feel like I need all the luck I can get. It...inspires me, at times. I just put them on the pages to encourage myself a bit. Get the best of my words flowing, you know?”

“It's certainly working,” Jack assures him. “Thank you. For sharing that with me. Some pretty heavy stuff there.”

“Yeah,” Mark replies, taking the book back. “You're welcome.”

The other man laughs again, though this time it's a little more strained. Jack can't help but wonder about him even more when Mark nearly whispers, as if to himself, “Pretty heavy indeed.”

~~

Mark begins to frequent the bakery a lot more, after that. They'd exchanged numbers at some point, and so on days Mark couldn't come in, he'd actually text him about it, which Jack appreciates. Jack's gotten used to waiting up for him, so it's nice not to wait around. 

In their frequent visits together, they drink a lot of coffee and get to know each other. Mark is from Ohio, with a mother and an older brother back home. No father to speak of, but he'd used to be in band in high school. Mark had finished college with an engineering degree but somehow ended up working in the technology field with a man named Arin, whom is a fantastic boss, Mark had insisted. Writing is a side hobby he partakes in when he has spare time.

Jack in turn returns the strange facts. He's from Ireland, with a mother, father, and four older siblings, two brothers and two sisters. He'd finished college with a hotel management degree of all things, but had inherited a small amount of money from an estranged uncle after his death. Deciding to take a chance, he had opened a bakery, which thankfully turned out in his favor. In his spare time, he plays way too many video games and occasionally writes music. 

It doesn't take long for Mark to become a part of Jack's life. He's part of the routine now. Jack has always been bad about getting too attached to people, but Mark is so hard not to like. He's still shy and flustered around him, but he's opened up a lot more, and at the end of every talking session, Mark shares another piece of writing.

Every word is gorgeous, so gorgeous that Jack finds himself falling in love with words. He's never been an avid reader, he had stated that to Mark, but he eats every bit of it up like it's the nectar of the gods. Mark's words are so lyrical and beautiful, filled to the brim with _something_ , something he can't quite explain. It's just powerful. 

As he reads, the poems and stories grow darker, and every time he can see the flicker of apprehension on Mark's face, just before he begins, as if he almost doesn't want to share. As if he's scared. 

Jack would be lying if he said he wasn't worried, to some degree.

But he never presses. Never demands answers. He just reads the words and hopes Mark will tell him eventually.

~~

Mark stops coming out of nowhere for a few weeks.

The winter melts into spring almost unnoticed. The spring is colder than usual but still warmer than winter, and any snow cropping up melts away, replaced by the brilliant warmth of the sun. 

Jack keeps sending texts to Mark, in hopes that he'll answer, but he never gets a reply. It begins to fill him with unimaginable dread because he doesn't know, and he has no way of figuring out if Mark is okay. The first few days are fine, because he can keep the worry down, but as the days bleed into weeks is when he starts growing a little bit frantic. 

It's been two weeks since he's seen Mark when he gets a text from him, filled with nonsensical words that make him panic even more. 

_Have you ever not felt like you? Like you’re thinking about yourself and you feel yourself and it doesn’t feel like you. Like your hands are not your own. Your skin is sloppily pulled onto a shape that’s not yours, covering hollowed bones that should be filled but are empty._

_...I don't feel like me._

Jack swallows, grateful he's at home when the text arrives because he can dedicate his time to responding and trying to make sense of it. He texts back. _No, I can't say I've ever felt like that. Are you okay, Mark?_

No reply. He waits a few minutes, before he texts again, more urgently, _Mark, can you answer me, please?_

Still, no answer. Jack texts yet again, _Mark? Mark, c'mon._

Time goes on with no answer, and Jack settles himself in for a long, restless night, hoping that the nerves twisting in his stomach are for nothing. 

~~

Two days after the random text from Mark, he comes back into the shop. It's a few hours before closing so when he sits in his corner table, Jack raises a hand, indicating that he sees him, but he attends first to the customers that he has before sitting down to talk. He wants to be able to dedicate his full attention to the other male. 

Mark seems to be okay with that. He doesn't move a whole lot during his stay and Jack almost forgets he's there, until he's pushing the last few people out, switching the sign around. Mark remains sitting, staring down at his hands, flexing the fingers as if the appendages are bizarre, and foreign to him. 

In reality, Jack is just really glad to see him. When he saunters his way over, sitting in front of him, Mark glances up at him from under his glasses, and only then does Jack notice how tired he looks. From the way his shoulders slump to the dark circles forming under his eyes, to the sluggish movements as he shifts in his chair, a little bit more attentive now that Jack is here, it's easy to pick out. He leans across the table and asks a simple question, “Are you okay, Mark?”

Jack waits. Mark seems to still, even more so than normal, at the question. Then his shoulders shake, as he stammers out, “Y-yeah, I-I'm—I'm _fine_. Just—had a—moment...”

The words sound fake, even to Mark's ears, apparently, given the way he winces just a bit. So Jack stares, narrowing his gaze just slightly, in the way that his mother used to when she knew he was lying. Mark fidgets under the look, before he hangs his head. 

“No,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “I haven't been okay in a long time.” 

Mark covers his face, pushing the glasses up as he does so, and his shoulders begin to tremble even more, as he murmurs, “I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry—I'm sorry for worrying you, I-I'm sorry for causing so much trouble, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry--”

Jack scoots his chair around the table to where he's next to Mark, immediately wrapping an arm around him. Mark presses his face into Jack's shoulder, pulling his glasses off and discarding them on the table.

“You don't have to be sorry,” Jack mumbles, patting him on the back, rubbing soothing circles against the fabric of his shirt. “It's okay.”

“It's not,” Mark insists. “I'm such a—I'm such a _goddamn_ mess--” 

He wrenches himself away from Jack's hold to yank up the sleeve of his shirt, revealing the pale skin of his forearm and wrists. Jack sucks in a sharp breath. The skin is decorated with cuts, all up and down, some looking faded, others looking much too fresh for comfort. 

Jack feels his heart stop in his chest, holding out his hand, palm up, as if to ask for permission to inspect further. Mark doesn't move for a long few seconds, as if fortifying himself, before he gives a short nod. Jack tenderly takes his hand, lightly tracing his fingers along the cuts. Mark hisses, and Jack draws away, fearful that he's hurt him, but Mark tucks his lower lip between his teeth, biting, and Jack realizes that he's just scared.

Suddenly, all of it makes sense. The weird texts, the dark poetry, the morbid stories—the long sleeves, the extended periods of time without coming by—the lack of sleep, the mumbled phrases under his breath that Jack couldn't quite pick out—the momentary apprehension every time Jack asked about his life. 

“It's hideous,” Mark says, his voice drained. “I just...I wanted to die so badly. But I couldn't even do it. Every time I cut a little deeper, hoping—but I can't--”

His heart aches. He wraps his fingers around Mark's hand, and murmurs, “Can I ask you something?”

Mark says nothing, but doesn't dispute the question, so he continues, “Can I ask that you'll never do this again?”

At that, Mark tenses. It's such a huge request, but Jack feels comfortable asking it. Maybe it's his own concern, or maybe it's that he feels such a connection to Mark, now. They're friends—one of his only ones. He's always been bad at keeping in touch with people, and Mark is the only person he's really considered close since leaving Ireland. But at any rate, they _are_ friends, or so he feels, and he'll be damned if he lets Mark go through this by himself.

Mark is so quiet, his body rigid, until he whispers, “I don't know if I can promise you that.”

Jack's grip tightens. He appreciates Mark's honesty, at least. “Then...then promise me you'll try. If you—if you feel like you're gonna...gonna do _this_...you can call me. Or text me. Or whatever you have to do. Just...”

He pauses, then, “We're friends now, Mark. And I care a lot about you. And I want to do what I can for you.” 

Jack wonders if he's being too presumptuous, but Mark seems to relax at his words, if only by a fraction. He realizes how much different Mark is without his glasses on—so much more untamed, wild, and readable. His eyes glisten a bit, but he blinks it away, and mouths thank you, to which Jack just nods his head. 

~~

The first time Jack ever receives a call from Mark, it's exactly three days after their conversation. 

Jack's at home in the middle of ripping Felix a new asshole on a video game when his phone starts blaring at him from his desk. He sets down his controller despite Felix's protests in his ear, and glances at the caller ID. When it reads _Mark_ , nervousness builds in his throat and he tells Felix he'll be back in a little while, promptly exiting the game and ending the Skype call. 

He answers the phone, pacing the length of his room as he says, “Mark?”

There's no reply, at first, but he can hear Mark breathing, so obviously he's there. He waits, a tad impatient when Mark finally mumbles, “Hi, Jack.”

“You good?” Jack asks, sitting down on his bed. He knows the answer, just from Mark's tone, but he figures he should ask, for formalities' sake. 

He's surprised by Mark's honesty when he says, “No.” 

Jack leans back on his bed, closing his eyes as he presses the phone closer to his ear, nodding his head. “Okay. That's okay. Well—why don't I just...talk to you for a while?”

Another beat passes, then a soft sigh. “I'd—I'd really like that.” 

“Right then!” Jack chirps, wracking his brain for any sort of story he can tell. He thinks of the gaming session he'd just gotten out of, and decides to go with that. “Alright, alright. So I got this friend named Felix, right? Totally _shite_ at playing Rocket League. So we were just in this session...”

He keeps talking and the only affirmation that Mark is there is the soft humming he does every so often, indicating his presence. Occasionally, Jack will hear him laughing at something he'd said, especially as the story transitions from Felix to his life back home, to the stupid shit he got up to as a teenager. 

Jack only stops talking when, as the night turns into early morning, he hears Mark's soft snoring over the phone, and he hangs up. Weariness fills him and he doesn't even bother to change into pajamas as he rolls over and goes to sleep himself. 

~~

Mark's calls aren't frequent, but they're always there. Sometimes it'll be in the middle of the day, sometimes it'll be in the middle of the night—usually at night, he finds. There will be a few days where it's every night, then a few weeks where there's no call at all. It's a little stressful at times, but nothing he can't handle.

The situation reveals itself slowly the more they talk. Mark whispers his secrets over the phone, about his situation, about his thoughts of dying and his attempts and they're never face to face, which makes Jack's heart break but at least he knows. Mark says he's surprised he'd even shown the scars to Jack, but in a way, he's glad he did. And Jack is too.

_Depression_. How long has that word been in his life? He's never had any family members dealing with it, no direct family, at least—he's had a few cousins and aunts and uncles that have breathed the word to him, but nothing he's ever had direct contact with. Though, Jack distinctly remembers a hospital visit to his youngest cousin, so young and small, so fragile—and not really understanding her plight. But faced with it directly—he feels helpless and he _wants_ to help. Desperately.

Late nights turn into Google sessions, his fingers frantically typing away, searching website after website, reading and reading and absorbing the information. Jack implements the knowledge he learns into everyday life—doing little kindnesses here and there, hoping it's a start, if nothing else.

The one night that scares him more than anything is the night Mark calls him, which isn't out of the ordinary, but it's when Mark sounds so dead, so quiet as he practically begs, “Can...can you come over? I don't want—I don't want to be alone.”

It sounds like he's choking on the words, as if embarrassed to even be asking. But Jack is already pulling on his hoodie, asking Mark to text him the address and he'll be over as soon as he can, before hanging up. Heart hammering in his ears, Jack is out the door in a manner of minutes, hailing a cab since he really, really doesn't have the patience to drive. 

It takes ten minutes. Ten agonizing minutes of riding in the stupid cab, before he sprints out the door, scarcely remembering to pay the driver. An apartment complex greets him and he climbs up the stairs, until he finds the proper number. He knocks once, then tries the doorknob. With a sick twist in his stomach, Jack realizes it's already open and when he enters, he locks the door behind him.

Quiet. It's deathly quiet in the apartment as he meanders his way through. There are various articles of clothing and books strewn about the place—a little unkempt but certainly not as bad as he'd been expecting. The walls are, in fact, a nice shade of blue. Soothing. Jack calls out, “Mark?” 

There's a soft noise from down the hall, and Jack follows it until he reaches a cracked bedroom door. He opens it, poking his head in, and the minute the light filters in, something shifts on the bed, and Mark sits up, wrapping his blanket around himself.

“Oh, god,” Mark mumbles, his voice quavering. “I-I'm sorry, I—shit, it's the middle of the goddamn night and here I am calling you—shit, shit, Jack—I'm so sorry...”

Jack lets out a soft sigh, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes as he walks around the bed, sitting on the other side. He shucks off his shoes and urges Mark to lay back down, which when he does, stares up at him with wide, brown eyes. 

“Don't worry about it,” Jack tells him honestly. “I'm just glad you're alright.” 

He means the words in earnest, and the tension in Mark's shoulders loosen. He snuggles down below the covers and Jack lays next to him, their noses almost touching, and he vaguely wonders if the gesture is much too intimate.

But Mark doesn't say anything. Blue meets brown, their eyes locked, and Jack, with a surprising surge of confidence, reaches up and combs his fingers through Mark's hair. He can remember his sister doing the same for him after he'd had nightmares, and he remembers how easily it put him to sleep, making him feel safer than he ever had. 

Jack hopes it'll do the same for Mark. 

It seems to be working. Mark closes his eyes and hums contently, soft in his throat. Jack whispers, “You're okay. You're okay. You're okay.”

He repeats it once, twice, then three times more, and eventually Mark's breathing evens out, fast asleep. Jack's own body demands rest and he finds himself drifting in and out. He makes a move to leave the bed, to maybe crash on the couch—because sleeping in the same bed with your friend is weird, isn't it? But he can't convince himself fast enough, and before he knows it, Jack is fast asleep.

~~

Jack wakes early, perhaps due to the unfamiliar place, or perhaps just because he knows he needs to be at work soon. There's a stiffness in his shoulders as he stretches, cautiously trying to get out of bed without waking the other.

He slides his legs over the edge of the bed, but when Jack goes to stand up, a hand reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. The Irishman jumps, his heart nearly popping out of his chest when he looks over his shoulder.

Mark lets go of his wrist, sitting up with him. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and runs his hands through his messy hair, tasseled from the night of sleep. It's adorable, really, and Jack has trouble hiding his grin. 

“Mornin',” he says, this time standing up. Jack gives himself a once-over, realizing that his clothes are horrendously wrinkled and yeah, he's definitely going to have to swing by the apartment and change. 

“Morning,” Mark replies, twisting his fingers in his blankets. “I—uh...Jack?”

“Hm?”

Mark licks his lips. “Thank you.” 

_For what?_ Jack almost asks. He thinks that it's human decency to come when a friend calls, but perhaps that's not the sort of question he should be asking. He wonders what made Mark call him, and doesn't he have other friends? Though, he feels humbled, at least. He smiles at him encouragingly. “You're welcome. Anytime.”

The clock reads 8 AM. He has to be down at the shop by nine, so Jack's got about an hour to get ready. Which means he needs to leave Mark's apartment soon, lest he be late. He has perhaps time to get back, and change clothes, but he probably doesn't have time for a shower—or at least a long one, like he prefers to take...

“Are you late?” Mark asks, apparently noticing Jack's mental calculations. 

“Not quite,” Jack answers. “Just gotta get back to my place so I can get ready. I'll be cutting it a little close, but I can make it. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Mark hums in reply, then clears his throat. “You can use the shower, if you want. And I—I have some old clothes that are probably about your size...you can borrow if you need 'em. Unless you have to go back home...” 

Jack's heart skips. “You don't have to do that for me--” 

“No, I want to,” Mark insists. “You—you might be late because of me and I don't want that. It's my fault you're out here, so—I wanna do what I can. I want to give back to you.” 

Jack swallows down any protests—but he knows he doesn't need Mark to give back to him. Concern, worry—those two things aren't a give and take system. They're given freely without expecting anything in return, and really, all Jack wants is for Mark to be happy and safe. 

But he doesn't voice that. He just says, “That's too kind of you. Thank you.”

Mark's smile to that is worth it.

~~

It isn't the last time he spends the night at Mark's. In fact, that first night had been the first of many nights they would spend together. 

Oddly enough, Jack never minds one bit. Whether he's sleeping or playing games or just taking some time for himself, if he gets a call to come over, he comes.

Every time, there's a strange intimacy in the air. The two of them will lay together, their noses almost touching. Sometimes Jack combs his fingers through Mark's hair, and sometimes Mark will hum—cheerful tunes, at times, but mostly somber little tunes that somehow still put Jack to sleep.

It's one day as Jack is closing up shop again—it's gotten to the point where sometimes Mark waits up, and they'll go back together, their fingers almost brushing together—not quite. Mark has his little black book with him and is already pushing a page towards him, indicating he wants him to read it.

Honestly, it's been a while since Mark's shared a writing piece. Maybe because Jack knows so much now, but he looks at the words. Before that, Jack trails his fingers along the clovers adorning the page, and he grins, thinking that those silly clovers were how they pretty much met.

Then he begins to read.

> _when i was little younger_  
>  i wanted to die  
> sixteen cuts for sixteen years  
> (that was only the first)  
> i survived and scared my mother half to death  
> and my brother, too  
> and i thought about how unlucky  
> i had to be  
> to fail at dying  
> (the only thing we're all destined to do)  
> so i started collecting charms  
> to give myself the luck  
> the bravery  
> to finally try it again  
> (and when i did  
> still i survived  
> how fucking unlucky am i?)  
> so i started collecting clovers  
> the ones you see  
> embroidering this page  
> and i thought  
> i must eventually  
> be lucky enough someday  
> to end this torment  
> to free myself from  
> this cycle of suffering  
> and yet  
> i find that  
> life works in mysterious ways  
> because instead of giving me an out  
> it gave me a new  
> way in  
> something to look forward to  
> someone with the smell of coffee on their skin  
> sugar on their rough hands  
> with  
> crooked teeth and graying hair  
> and blue eyes as brilliant  
> as the sky  
> maybe i'm not lucky enough to die  
> but i'm lucky enough to  
> have met him  
> (and that will be enough  
> for now) 

By the time Jack is finished reading, he's shaking, and when he flicks his gaze up to meet Mark's, he's trembling, too. It's not cold. In fact, the spring has finally warmed up the air. 

Jack licks his lips, setting the book down. Then, carefully, he stretches a hand out across the table, palm up, waiting. Nothing happens, at first.

Ever so slowly, Mark places his hand in his, their fingers intertwining. Jack squeezes, and then he smiles, and Mark smiles back.

The sunset streams through the window, hitting Mark just right. The glow illuminates his pale cheeks, his hair, and his eyes—mostly his eyes. They glisten in wonder, curiosity, and something else—something that Jack can't quite describe. But what he can describe is that Mark is utterly beautiful.

~~

“Your walls are very blue,” Jack says, staring at the walls of Mark's bedroom. “Actually—all of your walls are blue. Like, every room in the apartment. Why is that?”

“Oh,” Mark murmurs. Their fingers are intertwined again as they lay together. It's nighttime outside and Jack should be getting home but he's much too comfy, and Mark seems perfectly content with him to stay. “It's—my mom. After...after the second time—I was in college then, but I had my own place? This place. And she and Tom—my brother—they came in and painted all the walls in the apartment. Mom said blue is a healing color. And calming, too. She wanted to help me be calm, and hoped that I would heal, eventually--” 

He chokes up a bit, his grip on Jack's hand tightening. Jack hushes him, running his thumb along the skin of his hand. Mark mumbles, “I'm sorry, Jack. I keep saying that, don't I? I just—I'm working so hard at this and it always crumbles and I go back to being the same depressed thing that I am and it doesn't go away, I don't think it ever will. It's so frustrating because even with these stupid meds I take I'm still like this and—I work with a guy named Arin and he's really understanding because he had a friend named Danny who used to be depressed and he _gets_ it, in a way, gets how to deal with me but I'm so paranoid he's gonna get sick of my antics eventually and just--I just have good days and bad weeks, and I—sometimes I wanna die so badly, like I just want the earth to swallow me up and finish me off and—I just wanna be _happy_.” 

Before Jack can get a word in, Mark breathes, “And I think I love you. Not because you've always been here for me, or that you were there when no one else was, or that you always come running when I need you, though that's part of it. I'm just so in love with the way that you talk and the way that you laugh and your slightly crooked teeth and the light in your eyes when you're baking, like you're totally at peace with _everything_. I'm so in love with the way that you make me feel all warm inside like I've got nothing to worry about and I'm in love with the way that you make me wanna be alive—like I don't have to exist, I can be alive. I'm in love with the strength you give me, because you make me wanna save myself and that's so scary.”

He inhales sharply, whimpering out the last bit. “It's so scary because I've spent the last twenty-five years of my life wanting to die. I don't know how to do anything else.”

Jack's heart is breaking, bleeding out of his chest with the overwhelming desire to kiss him, to take him into his arms and stick all of his pieces together and never, ever let him hurt ever again. He sits up and Mark is crying, tears are streaming down his cheeks but he's so quiet, so soft and Jack wonders how many times he's had to cry to himself like that, so quietly so no one will ever hear. He pulls him up and hugs him tight, smoothing down his hair, letting him cry into his shoulder. 

When Mark pulls away, a few moments later, Jack brushes his cheek with his thumb. He kisses his forehead, his nose, his cheeks—both of them—then his lips, slowly and softly and with as much love as he can muster. Mark grips the front of his shirt in his fingers, and when Jack breaks the kiss, he presses their foreheads together.

“I love you too,” he whispers, and there's so much more he wants to say. Jack wants to tell Mark how much he loves the way that he smiles, the way that his laugh tinkles like bells. He wants to tell Mark how much he loves the sparkle in his eyes, how he loves the way his hair shimmers in the sun, the way that he meticulously presses clovers and pastes them into his notebook, the way that he writes and sticks his tongue out while doing so, lost in thought. He wants to tell Mark how much he's in love with just the _essence_ of him, the way that he radiates an unknown energy that drew him in from the start, that made him invite him in for coffee even though they were total strangers.

But he doesn't. He can't. Jack's words are tied, the four little ones all he can muster out.

Yet, Mark doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems content with them, as they hang between them in the air. 

~~

_Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz._

Jack cracks his eyes open, slapping at his phone on the bedside table, but when he picks it up, it isn't ringing. Jack sits up and realizes the blue walls, and yes, he's at Mark's place. Sometimes he forgets where he is.

It's been three weeks since the confession. Spring is in full bloom, and on most nights Jack doesn't even go back to his apartment. Mark just ends up swinging by the bakery and they walk back to his place together, hand in hand, like all is well in the world. 

It _hasn't_ been all sunshine and rainbows, though. Mark still has his bad days and he needs reassurance that Jack doesn't hate him, at times. Sometimes he's unresponsive and sometimes he's still so unsure of anything and so _sad_ that Jack wishes he could pull every bit of sad out of him and fill it with love. Sometimes Jack gets frustrated with him. But even so, those days are becoming few and far between, and it's getting there. 

Jack smiles at the thought. But then there's still a buzzing noise and he realizes that it's Mark's phone. He grabs it, glancing over at his partner, who is still sound asleep. He hits the answer button, carefully getting out of bed as he walks into the living room.

“Hello?” he answers.

“You're not Mark,” the voice immediately says, and Jack rolls his eyes.

“No, I'm not,” Jack replies. “I'm Jack.”

A pause. Then, “Ohhh. The boyfriend, right?”

“Who's asking?”

The voice lets out a snort. “Arin. I'm Mark's boss?” 

“Oh,” Jack rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. He's sleeping right now, and I didn't want to--” 

“I get it, I get it,” Arin says. “Don't wake him. Man needs to sleep. Though, he seems to be sleeping a lot more these days. I take it that's because of you.”

Jack shrugs, then realizes that Arin can't see that, so he says. “I don't know. I'm just kind of here.”

“Well _someone's_ making him better,” Arin says. “He's taking his meds and he's actually smiling. He's sleeping better and he talks more. Coincidentally, he started doing all of those things around the time he met you.”

Jack opens his mouth to talk, but Arin cuts him off. “But hey. I don't care what it is, just glad he's getting there. So make sure you stick around, okay?”

“I don't plan on leaving him,” Jack replies, and finds that if he's ever meant anything, it's that.

“Good,” Arin says, and Jack thinks he hears a grin in his voice. “Just tell him to give me a call when he wakes up, okay?”

“Will do,” Jack quips, then hangs up. 

He goes back into the bedroom, setting Mark's phone down on the nightstand. Glancing at the clock, he's glad he's taken the weekend off from work, given that if he hadn't, he'd be horrendously late. Jack sits on the bed, careful again not to disturb his partner, as he thinks over his life.

Jack has always been some level of content with his life. He's never felt like he was lacking in anything—he had friends he went out with sometimes, he plays games with Felix on weekends and is on relatively good terms with his parents and siblings. His business is pretty successful and he has a pretty nice apartment.

But now that Mark is in his life, it feels _better_. More complete. Like he's finally found all of the pieces to the puzzle, or most of them. It feels good. 

Jack sighs. Mark stirs and sleepily opens his eyes, rolling over to see Jack sitting there. He grumbles softly and murmurs, “Everything okay?”

Half-lidded brown eyes stare at him, still heavy with tiredness, and Jack's heart squeezes. He thinks back on Mark's words, how Mark had said he was lucky for being able to meet Jack, but there's something about the moment at hand that makes him feel like the lucky one. He thinks back to the cloudy day in Autumn, the first time he had seen him, and can't help but feel so damn lucky that he did.

So Jack laughs, leaning down to press a kiss to Mark's forehead as he says, with no hesitation, “Yeah. Life is good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are appreciated.


End file.
